


call it experience

by cuneifire (orphan_account)



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Drabble, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 06:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19312828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: There’s a reason Rick drinks.





	call it experience

**Author's Note:**

> possibly more h/c than anything else. i haven't watched this show in like, a year; just cleaning out some old stuff. also have not seen s3 so please take note of that.

 

The bottle is rusted, shiny silver turned bronze with time. Rick taps his fingers against it, frowning.

He takes a swig.

The sun is setting, or rather the suns are setting; it’s a different version of Earth he’s on now.

The alcohol goes down smooth; seventy percent, specialty of Goganzumola from down the road. Tastes like ashes mixed with blood.

He finishes it in a few quick minutes, happy with the burn in the back of his throat.

Rick knows why he drinks. Not in a scientific, down-to-earth way, but in that nebulous, overly philosophical ramble that he fucking hates to his very core.

He tries for another sip. The bottle’s empty.

Fuck.

It has something to do with that, after seeing so much shit in this stupidly wide universe, one gives up on a lot of things. Hard to believe in a God when you’ve witnessed mass genocides by the bucketload. Hard to believe in the good of humanity when you’ve walked past child slavery ring and known you’re incapable of doing anything. Hard to believe in anything when the universe in simply too big for the majority of puny human brains to even comprehend.

So he drinks.

He thinks back to today, before he’d ended up here and before the bottle had been empty.

Earlier today, he’d offered Morty a drink.

_“C’mon Morty, it’s only twenty percent. You’ll be fiiine.”_

His grandson had eyed the bottle, and then shook his head.

_“No thanks, Grandpa. I’m alright.”_

He hadn’t been alright. Earlier that day they’d been dropped smack dab in the middle of a civil war between two of the most brutal tribes on the planet. From one of Rick’s quests to make a deadly weapon largely available to the general populace. _“Gun rights, Morty. Very important. Ask Republicans.”_

His grandson had walked through the entire day with very wide, empty eyes.  

And that, right there, was what confused him. He flicks his wrist at the (green) sunset, drinking further.

His grandson, despite (or perhaps _because)_ of everything, did not seem to _get it._ Either he was too naïve or too stupid, but he didn’t seem to understand that nothing meant anything and that terrible things were consistently happening and you can't stop them.

‘Morty waves’ be damned, that was why Rick kept him around. Rick didn’t like it when he didn’t understand things, and the fact that his own grandson was incomprehensible to him annoyed him beyond belief.

And so he drinks to that. 


End file.
